


silver dipped and full of longing

by GreyishBlue



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, No one graphically dies, Sorry?, Wings!, angels/demons - Freeform, but they're dead so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 05:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/pseuds/GreyishBlue
Summary: The first thing Clint notices when he wakes up is pain. He tries to shift himself up from where he’s laying on his side, but his body feels too heavy and he slumps back down with a groan. The pain is nothing like a broken bone, bruises, or cuts. It’s everywhere across his back, a deep aching pressure that makes it near impossible to breathe





	silver dipped and full of longing

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square - Angel/Demon AU

The first thing Clint notices when he wakes up is pain. He tries to shift himself up from where he’s laying on his side, but his body feels too heavy and he slumps back down with a groan. The pain is nothing like a broken bone, bruises, or cuts. It’s everywhere across his back, a deep aching pressure that makes it near impossible to breathe. He rolls himself more carefully onto his front to try to get away from the weight of it, focuses on getting a full breath. It’s a lot more slow, shaking tries before he’s breathing evenly.

It takes him a long, long time to open his eyes, and he’s begrudgingly grateful for the darkness of whatever room he’s in. He can’t remember anything after nearly falling from the railing of a building he was precariously hanging onto. The view swims a moment before he can make out the outline of his hands, splayed out against the floor in front of him. He’s not tied up in any way, and wearing some comfortable sweatpants, so hopefully it hasn’t turned into the kidnapping or torture type of day at least. He looks slowly around, trying to take stock of the room and himself, but mindful of the throbbing behind his eyes. 

The room he’s in is getting lighter, almost like a courteous dawning, just enough for his eyes to adjust. There doesn’t seem to be a source for the light, which Clint decides to worry about just as soon as he figures out what’s going on. Other than a door at the far end and the scattering of blankets beneath him, there’s nothing in the room of note. 

He finally takes a deep breath and tries to turn to see the source of pain behind him. Something in his shoulders shifts and it feels intensely wrong. He panics for a moment and loses his balance, tries to spread his arms to catch himself. The shifting in his back is heavy, awkward, still throbs with the ache of a new muscle. On either side of him, shaking with effort, spread tawny colored wings. Clint stares up at them, transfixed by the soft glow of light against feathers, little prisms of color shimmering whenever his body gives another involuntary shudder. Sounding like he hasn’t used his voice for days, he rasps, “What the fuck?”

At the sound of his voice, a new light floods into the room, and Clint’s eyes snap up to the source. Where there was a door previously, now there just.. Isn’t. It’s not open, it’s just gone. Clint thinks vaguely that’s not how doors are supposed to work. From the pool of light filtering in the door, a figure emerges. Clint can’t make out more than the outline of it at first. Slowly the features resolve into a familiar mix of long dark hair, a sharp jaw and icy blue eyes. The creature in front of Clint certainly looks like Bucky, but Clint is like.. 96% certain that Bucky never had a set of beautiful black wings, glinting in the light like they’re dipped in silver. 

“So uh... hey Clint. You’re okay, I’ll explain all of this..” The voice is Bucky’s too, the little tilt of his lips. Clint is pretty busy freaking out about the wings on his own back, but he puts a little effort into freaking out about the half-naked angel version of Bucky in front of him as well. When Bucky or Not-Bucky kneels next to him and settles a hand gently on his shaking shoulder, it’s warm and reassuring in a way he can’t deny. Clint can see even the dusting of freckles across Maybe-Bucky’s nose, and he knows from long nights spent trying to kiss across them all that they’re the same.   
“Is this really you, Buck?” Clint flushes at the waver in his voice, he’s usually better at keeping himself collected, but this is like eight levels above some bratva thugs kicking him around. He reaches a hand up to trail his fingers across Hopefully-Bucky’s arm, maybe having him under his fingertips will prove it one way or another. 

“Yeah, sugar, it’s me. Just try to breathe for me, okay?” It’s the tone Bucky always used when he was talking Clint down from a high or up from a dark place, and hearing that careful soothing goes far enough to convince Clint. He finally gets a real lung full of air and shoves himself up into Bucky’s arms. When he wraps his arms desperately around Bucky’s shoulders, his wings follow along and a moment later they’re wrapped clumsily around them both. 

Bucky holds him tightly, trails his hands carefully down his back, skirting the edges of where the wings exit Clint’s back. Clint hisses at the sensation of Bucky’s fingers gently catching on feathers there, shudders for the thousandth time that night when he realizes it feels... nice. Bucky’s only ever been second to Nat in being able to help Clint relax, and his skills don’t seem to have been impacted by the added feathers. Clint is soon slumping against him and breathing more easily. He mumbles into Bucky’s hair, “Okay, tell me what’s going on?”

Bucky tucks himself more carefully around Clint before replying, “So when you die, you kind of become an angel if you’re considered a hero on earth. We all wake up here, but sort of at the same time, even if we died separately. It’s uh, a lot more complicated than that but that’s the jist of it.” He gets all the words out in record time, like he’s worried Clint will bolt partway through. 

He’s right to worry, Clint tries to jerk back before he realizes the only way he actually wants to go is deeper into Bucky’s hold and he gives in to the need. There’s not really closer they can get this way, but Bucky starts pressing kisses to Clint’s temple, his jaw, shoulder, whatever he can reach being wrapped up like he is. With every press of his lips, Bucky mutters some soft praise, little loves and cares pressed into Clint’s skin and hair. 

Clint relaxes slowly, still holds himself tightly to who he really fucking hopes is Bucky, but relaxes while clinging. He wants to ask why, and how, and a lot of other things. This is too much, with the weight in his back pressing the facts of it into him. The slow drag of Bucky’s hands down his spine feel the same as any night they’d spent together, caresses doing more to reassure either of them than anything else.

When Clint finally manages to arrange a few questions in an order that makes sense, he mumbles them quietly against Bucky’s ear. Bucky whispers soft answers back, works his fingers into the sore muscles along Clint’s back. They settle slowly down to the floor in increments, eventually comfortable wrapped in one another. Clint tries to ask what they’re doing here, and Bucky reassures him that right now all they’ve got to worry about is being together. 

There’s something about a war for humanity, demons and armies, but Clint finds himself unable to worry with the deep rumbling voice of Bucky in his ear. Eventually his eyes are slipping closed and the softness of Bucky’s feathers brushing along his legs is luring him back into sleep. He figures they can come up with saving the world in the morning.


End file.
